The cottage smelled of waffles and sugared tea, the kind you steep too long in sunlight because you’ve got nowhere else to be. It was a good day—clear skies, warm air, the little patch of earth you called home buzzing with bees and the sound of your son’s laughter. He was barefoot and wild, racing through the grass just outside, his curls damp with sweat, cheeks flushed pink from play.

It wasn’t much, this clearing hidden deep in the forest. Just a cottage overgrown with ivy and lined with strawberry vines, the windows fogged from baking and boiling and everything that made the place feel lived in. But it was safe. And that had to count for something.

You were crouched near the edge of the wall, plucking sun-ripe strawberries into a woven basket when you heard it—that tiny voice ringing out with joy.

“Daddy!”

You froze. Straightened. And there he was.

Regulus stood at the edge of the tree line, half-shadowed beneath his hood. For a second, he didn’t move. Just watched. You could see it then—the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for something but didn’t know how.

Your son was already running toward him, arms outstretched, stumbling with excitement. Regulus knelt to catch him, cloak folding around the boy like wings. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

It had been weeks since the last visit. Too long. And without letters, without updates, you’d imagined everything from exile to death. Seeing him now—alive, whole—was enough to make your knees weak.

You wiped your hands on your trousers, heart pounding. He looked tired. Paler. But his eyes found yours, and something soft flickered there—guilt, maybe. Longing. You weren’t sure. You only knew that you missed him. You always did.

This wasn’t the life you had imagined. Not back at Hogwarts, when the world still felt full of maybes and freedom. But it was your life now—quiet, secret, stitched together with stolen time and whatever love could survive in the shadows.